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by Alison Braund
7 October 1995

A former Adelaide
journalist infiltrated the Church of Scientology in
England. Exposed and arrested, she tells her story.

THE brief had seemed relatively straightforward — to
enter the Church of Scientology and secretly film some
of its courses, widely criticised around the world for
allegedly using mind-control techniques. There was no
shortage of background material on the church, as it had
been shrouded in controversy for many years. The
organisation had been subjected to legal and political
investigations in Australia, England and its birthplace,
the United States. Its activities are constantly
attracting publicity across the world.

Founded by a science-fiction writer, L. Ron Hubbard,
the Church of Scientology has its own vocabulary,
hierarchy, rules, regulations and agenda. It boasts a
worldwide membership of more than 4 million people and
one of the biggest computer databases of personal
information in existence. For my investigation, I was to
be recruited into the
Poole
"mission'' of the church, in South England. My producers
chose Poole because it was one of the most successful
Scientology operations in the world. My task was to work
my way into headquarters of the elite "Sea
Organisation'' (Sea Org), where mainly young members
work for the church and live in a mansion on England's
South Coast. The Sea Org's stated goal is to save the
world. As a result, a standard employee's contract is
for one billion years — that is, your life and all your
lives to come.

My story, for British television company Twenty
Twenty, was to be aired
in a current-affairs series, The Big Story. But I never
imagined the lengths the Church of Scientology would go
to in its effort to stop the program from being
broadcast. Nor the way it would deal with those
involved.

My assignment began by creating a false name, life
and identity which was repeatedly tested until I knew it
backwards. Past scientologists came to teach me how to
avoid being hypnotised. They showed me how to keep my
mind occupied during concentrated sessions, which could
last for several hours, and yet appear to be affected.

I also studied how to cheat the E-Meter, a primitive
lie detector widely used within the Church of
Scientology for, among other things,
security checks.
Holding two cans in your hand, it passes an electrical
current through your body and your emotional responses
are assessed by a scientologist who monitors a dial with
a needle. Interrogations can include questions like "Are
you or have you ever been involved in the media?'' and
"Have you ever had unkind thoughts about L. Ron
Hubbard?''.

For those who make it further into the church's
hierarchy, there is the "Whole Security Check'', which
demands answers to questions like "Have you ever
destroyed a culture?'', "Have you ever bred bodies for
degrading purposes?'' and "Did you come to Earth for
evil purposes?''.

I practised using a micro-camera lens hidden in a
pair of spectacles. Recording and sound equipment was
strapped to a corset. A psychologist came to assess my
personality. His findings would be compared with those
of the scientologists' well-known, 200-question
personality test, "The
Standard Oxford Capacity Analysis'', which soon
would be used on me. As a final safeguard, I signed a
contract giving my permission to be forcibly removed
from the Church of Scientology's premises in case I was
brainwashed.

The Scientology recruiter who stopped me in the Poole
Mall said he was promoting a book. He said he wanted to
ask me some questions. This is a standard technique. The
goal is to stop people, ask them some preliminary
questions and then take them to a Scientology office
where they are asked to do the Standard Oxford Capacity
Analysis. This test usually shows that a person is in
need of what is known within the organisation as "dianetic
auditing''. I followed my recruiter to a book display
centre to learn more about dianetics, which I was told
could improve my life, memory and relationships. I was
asked to complete the personality test and drop it off
at the Scientology office, or "college'', that evening.

The Scientology personality test asks curious
questions like "Are you a slow eater?'', "Do you often
whistle or sing just for the fun of it?'', "When
unexpected things happen, do some of your muscles have
jerking motions?'', "Do you consider too much money is
spent on social security'', "Are you opposed to the
probation system for criminals?'' and "Do you browse
through railway timetables, directories or dictionaries
just for pleasure?''. Its results are drawn on to a
graph, which invariably shows personal problems,
requiring the need to spend money on taking Scientology
courses to improve one's life. As expected, the findings
of my earlier, professional psychological test
contrasted strongly with their results.

That evening, at the "college'', I had my first taste
of the skilful and hard-sell techniques of the church's
recruiters, who are given targets to be reached at the
end of each week. Most people at Poole appeared to work
long days, at least six days a week. One
ex-scientologist told me he earned 90 ($A180) a week.
However, if targets were not met, this could fall to as
low as 2.50 ($A5) a week. Graphs charting the financial
and membership status of the Poole mission were pinned
to walls in the building. I learnt Scientology
"missions'' compete to beat the others found throughout
the world.

I arrived at the college at 9pm. By 10.30pm, I had
been in the "public contact'' secretary's office for
over an hour. I was feeling vulnerable and depressed.
Although I was determined not to sign up for anything
during the marathon session, or hand over any money that
evening, I ended up signing up just to get away. I
handed over the special half-price fee of 32.25 for five
hours of "auditing''.

"Auditing'' sessions typically would start with
understanding and friendship from the Scientology staff
as they discussed problems and offered solutions. Then
they would question the effectiveness of outside forms
of help, and suggest that only by undertaking a
Scientology course would an improvement be achieved.

There are many types of Scientology "auditing''
courses. The object is to "clear'' the person — to
cancel all their "engrams'' left behind by negative
experiences. A promotional video explains "engrams'' by
showing a woman who falls to the floor. While
unconscious, a tap is running in the kitchen and her
husband comments she looks terrible. As a result, every
time a tap runs she thinks she looks terrible.

To cancel all one's "engrams'' usually takes at least
200 hours, although it can take thousands. Each session
costs money. The evidence of a "clear'' person is
apparently someone with near-perfect memory and glowing
health: radiant personalities free from disease. My
"auditing'' entailed describing a negative event in my
life to my auditor over and over again, in order that I
could talk about the event free from any emotion
connected with it.

The auditor spoke in a slow, soothing monotone in a
method similar to that used in hypnosis. He wrote down
everything I said. After my auditing was completed, I
was congratulated before it was recommended I do a "Purification
Rundown''. Through massive doses of vitamins and an
average of five hours of sauna a day, along with running
activities, the program is claimed to release you from
all legal and illegal drugs and alcohol which otherwise
would linger forever in your system.

I refused to do this course so it was suggested I do
the "Success Through Communications'' course, as my
personality test had shown I had problems communicating.
I agreed to this, paid 58 and endured three days of
inane work and drills. I spent two, boring hours
sitting, staring at a scientologist. There are other
strange drills, including ignoring anything your partner
is saying, pretending to sound interested, changing the
subject and answering a question by ignoring it.

Any criticism of courses or the church was strictly
forbidden. Church members told me it was part of a plot
by the "suppressive or anti-social'' person to stop any
good being done in the world. Even among members,
nothing critical was ever said, although it appeared
obvious to me some people were unhappy about work
conditions. I got the impression that the feeling within
the cult is like that of a dictatorial regime — you
never know who your friends are and you were always
being watched. Every scientologist is expected to report
anything they hear which is contrary to the church
teachings. Anyone who does anything rebellious or fails
substantially could be sent on the infamous "Rehabilitation
Project Force'' (RPF). Stories from ex-cult members
describe cramped sleeping arrangements, hard manual
labor and security checks (or "evil purpose editing'').

After a handful of courses, my future worth to the
church was to be determined. I was sent to the head of
the mission to have my finances assessed. I said I had
very little money left but hinted I would have access to
an inheritance in a few weeks.

The mission head suddenly was interested. He
persisted with suggesting ways I could get the money as
soon as possible, so I could get started with future
courses. One costing 2000 was deemed best for me. I was
lucky though and ended up paying only half of another
course which cost only about 100. It has been well
documented by the media that other people who have
become involved with the Church of Scientology have
not been so fortunate.

It may seem incredible that otherwise intelligent
people can fall victim but they are given little time to
think, have other interests or see their friends. As a
new recruit, I was seldom left alone and would be
personally escorted from room to room — even if I knew
where to go.

Sometimes I was even followed into the toilet and
asked questions. On my second visit, when I went to move
my car, I was escorted there and back.

When I decided it was time to make my run for the
church headquarters, the Sea Org, I entered on the
pretext of visiting a mansion formerly owned by L. Ron
Hubbard. After discussions, I was asked if I'd be
interested in joining the staff. There, I found members
were working and studying from 8am to 10pm.

I had become used to filling out questionnaires,
surveys, writing testimonies and being asked security
questions. But at Sea Org headquarters, I was introduced
to the "Life
History'' questionnaire, which topped them all.

I was asked to list all people I knew who had
expressed any opinion against Scientology. I had to
detail all my friends; their jobs and previous jobs and
the communication I'd had with them since joining
Scientology; to list all the drugs and medicine I'd
taken, when and for how long; to give a complete sexual
history, from the earliest experience, of both
heterosexual and homosexual activities and the names of
all involved, the number of times of the activity and
any perversions engaged in. I objected but was told the
information was totally confidential and would be used
only by my counsellors to help me. I do not believe this
is the case.

Then, as my assignment continued, there was a
tip-off. I apparently was followed one evening to the
house of the producer of my program, whose address
already was noted by the Scientology
"Special Affairs'' office.

When I returned to the Sea Org headquarters, I was
left alone in a room. It was there I saw a pile of
photocopied documents marked "strictly confidential''.
They included the names of some ex-members who had been
involved in litigation with the church. I wanted to read
the material and film it, so I put one of the papers in
my bag. Meanwhile, the "Special Affairs'' director was
filming my activities with two concealed cameras. The
police were called and I was arrested for suspicion of
theft.

As I left the building, the corridors were suddenly
lined with scientologists, some of whom photographed and
videotaped me. I was taken to the local police station
and later released on bail. My main fear was that the
scientologists would get hold of my real name. It is
widely documented that people who have spoken out
against the church and its activities have been
harassed. Although the police assured me they didn't
release my name, it wasn't long before the cult was
visiting my family in rural South Australia.

After my arrest, I rang my family in Australia to
warn them the church may contact them. I heard someone,
claiming to be a journalist, had called my former high
school asking for information about my background. He
told my father I was involved in a cult and wanted to
help me. When my father refused to tell him anything, a
woman visited him the next day.

She admitted she was from the Church of Scientology
and said I had been arrested, that I would get a
criminal record and never be able to work again. She
urged him to contact me and convince me not to proceed
with the program. Meanwhile, the man had been at my
primary school, masquerading as the husband of one of my
friends, looking through my school records. The campaign
to stop the program from being aired gathered momentum.
This involved demonstrations and the distribution of a
Scientology magazine called Freedom. An article in
Freedom accused me and my producers of dishonesty,
deceit, violating codes of television journalistic
ethics and committing criminal acts.

Everything built up to broadcast night. Predictably,
Carlton TV had many phone calls the evening the program
was aired, complaining about biased reporting. But one
of the most telling things of all, was that many of them
were made before the broadcast even went to air.

After a protracted legal wrangle, charges for
suspicion of theft were dropped by the Crown Prosecution
Service. The scientologists unsuccessfully sought an
injunction against the program going to air. They also
issued civil writs against me and Twenty Twenty,
claiming damages for trespass to goods, trespass and
breach of confidences. These proceedings have yet to be
heard.

The Church of Scientology also issued summonses for
"obtaining services by deception''. My lawyers applied
to the London Magistrates Court for a hearing to halt
these proceedings.

The case hit the media spotlight. My lawyers argued
the summonses should be dismissed as they were issued
solely to prevent the broadcast of the program, to
punish and embarrass the defendants for making the
program and to dissuade other journalists from
publishing any material critical of the church. The case
ended in the withdrawal of the summonses late last
month, although the church still has the right to
appeal.

Source: The Advertiser,
Adelaide, Australia October 7, 1995

Behind Scientology

Described as the
study of knowledge, it was invented by the
science-fiction writer L. Ron Hubbard in the
1950s. Although innocent on the surface, dealing
with self improvement, the movement has quite
strange undertones. As a member moves up the
various levels, by completing courses, he or she
discovers its belief in reincarnation. When a
member reaches the highly classified OT3 level (Operating
Thetan), he or she is ready to learn the
secret of the history of the universe, which is
so powerful and dangerous that if one is not
ready for its revelation, it will result in
their death. The revelation is that billions of
years ago, the Earth was called the planet
Creteon and the ruler of the galaxy, Prince Xenu,
living in another galaxy which was
over-populated, sent some of his subjects to
Earth, stored them in volcanoes and blew them up
with atom bombs. Their souls, or "thetans"
clustered together and now form us.

Scientologist's court case thrown out by
magistrates

By Nicola Methven
25 September 1995
UK Press Gazette

Its a real victory for journalists doing their job in
the interest of the public, and a victory against
pressure groups like the Church of Scientology. — Alison
Braund.

BIG STORY journalist Alison Braund has hailed a court
victory over the Church of Scientology as a boost to
investigative journalism. City of London magistrates
dismissed private prosecutions for theft brought by the
Scientologists against Braund, producer Claudia Milne
and Twenty Twenty Television as an abuse of process. An
attempt to ban the programme was refused by the Attorney
General (UKPG 17 July).

Braund said afterward: "Its a great decision. Its a
real victory for journalists doing their job in the
interest of the public, and a victory against pressure
groups like the Church of Scientology, who harass people
through the courts. I shall carry on investigating. We
did follow ITC guidelines and, for the integrity of
myself, Twenty Twenty and Carlton, its great.

The Church had accused the programme makers of having
obtained entry to two of its courses dishonestly, and of
trespass to goods.

In May, Braund went undercover and enrolled for
scientology courses in order to film for the programme,
entitled Inside the Cult.

The court heard that the church suspected she was an
undercover journalist and sought to entrap her by
leaving documents, marked highly confidential, around.
Braund took them and was consequently arrested for
theft.

The police and Crown Prosecution Service considered
the case but took no further action.

The chairman of the magistrates, Hinda Style, said:
The actions of the prosecution pre-empted the decision
of the CPS, and the taking out of summonses was
oppressive.

Representing the defendants, Peter Thornton said: The
proceedings are tainted by the ulterior motives of
trying to prevent the broadcast, punishing and
embarrassing the defendants, and dissuading other
journalists and programme makers from publishing any
other material critical of the Church of Scientology.

He also submitted that dishonesty was not involved in
the accepted sense. He told the court that the cult
being secretly filmed by Braund, using a camera
concealed in her spectacles, involved hypnotic elements,
brainwashing and taking money.

Costs of 15,410.31 were awarded against the
prosecution. The Church is considering appealing the
magistrates decision. A Church spokesman said that the
programme was cynically calculated" and had ignored
information which it had provided.